


Vee Dee

by stackcats



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Office Sex, Valentine's Day Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stackcats/pseuds/stackcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The timing is not Jamie's fault and he'll commit gleeful GBH on anyone that suggests otherwise</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vee Dee

Jamie will swear it’s a co-incidence, honest to God, but the fourteenth of February 1998 is the day he finally cracks.

 

Everyone else is distracted by stupid red loveheart cards, and gossiping over who those flowers came from if it wasn’t _him_ or _him_ , or who got reservations at what trendy restaurant, and Malcolm’s taking full advantage of it. This morning he finally won his on-going battle of wills with the Defence secretary, who’s half-convinced he’s given his wife the card meant for his girlfriend, over the timing of deployment for his new (and admittedly rather clever) policy, and Jamie’s just witnessed him talk Steve “Shit I Forgot, Someone Help Me Choose Something For The Missus” Fleming into a corner he won’t be able to back out of even when he’s no longer distracted by the looming threat of his tyrannical wife (though Malcolm compares her more to one of those big, slow, leaf-eater dinosaurs), and now Malcolm has the deciding tick on decidedly more Number Ten policy than he did when he strolled through the door this morning.

 

Right now, they’re having lunch in Malcolm’s office. Or, rather, Jamie is having lunch and Malcolm is laughing and joking and fucking _flirting_ down the phone with the editor of the _Express_ , which Jamie knows means that he, Malcolm, has just scored several more points, and this is becoming an enormous problem because Jamie, wee Jamie from Motherwell who was expelled from school eight times before he was thirteen, who wore nothing but hand-me-downs until he got his first job, who spent his childhood playing in the streets, keeping an eye on the younger kids and warning his brothers if the police were around… well, it turns out he’s got this thing for _power_.

 

Not just any power. He doesn’t want to tongue-fuck the PM, for christsakes. The unrelenting stiffy he’s (successfully?) hiding beneath a broadsheet is for Malcolm and Malcolm alone.

 

All these slick bastards they work around, they’re not _that_ different to the government they’ve just ousted, in many ways. A lot of them went to posh schools, and even the ones whose parents didn’t pay a penny for their education know what cutlery to use when a restaurant inexplicably provides you with a set of options. They wander in and out of Downing Street like they were born to be there, like they were granted the right to run the country by god almighty himself, apparently oblivious to the sweat, blood, tears, spinal fluid, and the occasional llama sacrificed over the past few years by Malcolm and his team of hard working Caledonian bastards to put them where they are today. They seem to have forgotten. They seem to think all this influence is unquestioningly _theirs_ by divine right.

 

Malcolm, though… he gets up every morning with fire in his belly and he _fights_. His is not the power of a soft wee king on a big plush throne, his is the power of the man who takes up a sword bigger than himself and fucking beats people to death with it, and does it so well and with such flawless strategy and timing, that the soft wee king will listen to him and do whatever he says. It’s power _earned_ , power _grasped_ by calloused, blooded fingers, it’s power never, ever taken for granted but fought and killed for every day, guarded at night, and shared or compromised with no one.

 

That’s the sort of power Jamie will go down on his knees for. And he will, he _would_ , if Malcolm would let him, but Jamie’s attempts at flirting have all been brushed off or ignored, which is fine, because he’s figured it out. It’s not Malcolm’s fault, it’s his – he keeps trying to be subtle, with the light touching and the lingering looks and eliminating any concept of personal space. That’s never going to work. Subtle is not his thing, not at all, and he imagines it’s coming off as weird.

 

Weird is not the vibe he's going for. Time to stop pissing around and take a leaf out of Malcolm’s book, and just fucking do it, just _tell him_ , like it says in the window of Clinton Cards. (Not that the date has _any fucking thing_ to do with it, and if you were to suggest otherwise Jamie would take the opportunity as presented to punch through your ribcage, scratch out your lungs, tear your heart from its wee cardiac sac, and present it, still beating and spewing blood onto the parquet, to Malcolm as proof of his raging passion and violent devotion. So fucking _don’t_.)

 

Or, instead of telling him, a better, more comfortable idea: show him.

 

Malcolm hangs up on the editor and grins at Jamie, and this is it, this is the last possible minute Jamie can survive on this muddy little planet without any idea what Malcolm tastes like. He jumps out of the chair, launches himself across the office, grabs with outstretched hands, gets his fists full of Malcolm’s jacket and shirt, pulls him in close, and kisses him.

 

Jamie reckons he’s a good kisser, but for a long moment Malcolm doesn’t respond, and then he shoves Jamie off and stands there, mouth open, glaring at him in stunned silence. His gaze flicks meaningfully down, and Jamie gives him a big, lopsided, _yes you do that to me_ grin.

 

Malcolm holds his gaze for a moment, then turns and heads for the door. Jamie’s about to shout something unintelligible to get him to fucking _stop_ , but puts his hands to the wood, pushes the door firmly closed, and then turns the key, locking them in. Jamie practically growls in triumph.

 

Malcolm can move really fucking _fast_ when he wants to, and within a moment Jamie finds himself with skinny arms around him. Malcolm makes a compulsive little nip at his jaw before kissing him back.

 

It had only been intended as an unambiguous statement of Jamie’s intention to fuck Malcolm senseless at some later, unspecified date, but things are already getting out of control. Jamie’s whining and biting, while Malcolm feels him up through his trousers, hand sliding down between his legs to squeeze him, back up to stroke him, Jamie hooking his leg up to give Malcolm better access, and then he’s falling back, and he doesn’t quite realise he’s falling until his arse lands in Malcolm’s leather chair.

 

Malcolm gives him a little push, as though worried he might try and get up, but Jamie’s seen the flick of Malcolm’s tongue, the hungry glint in his eye, so he just grins hugely and sprawls back, legs spread, as Malcolm gets down on his knees and tugs down Jamie’s zip.

 

Malcolm’s mouth is hot, and quick, and clever, and Jamie finds himself arching back in the chair, biting down on his own wrist to stop himself howling with the overload of sensation. He can’t prevent his hips from bucking, but Malcolm doesn’t flinch; he’s on a mission, just like he always is, that mouth of his reducing Jamie’s brain to something resembling primordial ooze so he can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but hang onto Malcolm’s hair and scrabble his feet against the desk and thrust into his throat. Malcolm swallows everything without so much as a moan, and then he’s up on his feet, putting space between them, and now Jamie _does_ want to shout.

 

He settles for asking, “What about you?”

 

“No time. Up. Move.”

 

The disappointment must be evident on Jamie’s face, because Malcolm strides back over, kisses him, and says, “I’ll wait for round two. My place?”

 

Jamie shivers at the taste of himself on Malcolm’s tongue, and nods vigorously. “Six o’clock?”

 

“Haha, yeah. More like ten.”

 

“That’s _hours_ away.”

 

“I know. Bring food.”

 

And then he’s unlocking the door and away.

 

* * *

 

Obviously they never do the whole Jessie cards-and-dates-and-chocolates thing, they aren’t fucking _teenagers_ , and even if they were, Valentine’s Day is a vat of steaming, commercial wet shit that only gibbering morons get worked up about. The fact that Jamie chose _that day_ only ever comes up again once, several years later.

 

Sam’s helping Malcolm set up a new online bank account, and Jamie has been reluctantly allowed into the room despite Sam’s short-lived protest ( _he steals your credit card!_ she reminded him, but Malcolm had pointed out that it hardly made any difference, then, did it?) Ostensibly, he’s leafing through a filing cabinet. He’s actually still sounding her out, the new PA Malcolm’s gone all mushy over. She’s rearranged the whole office system, and Malcolm, with his hard-on for efficiency, can’t stop talking about her, up to and including mentioning her in bed last night, so if she’s going to let him down Jamie would sooner have to kill her _now_ than later. So far, she checks out, but he’s keeping an eye.

 

“You have to pick three of these security questions to answer,” she says, pointing at the screen. “What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

 

Malcolm’s eyes widen as he tries to remember. “Oh fuck me…”

 

“Morrison,” Jamie mutters.

 

“Yes, that, put that.”

 

Sam types it in. “Okay… name of your first childhood pet?”

 

“Never had one.”

 

“What was your primary school called?”

 

“Fucked if I remember. Next.”

 

“Okay… favourite cousin’s middle name.”

 

“She hasn’t got one. What’s the fucking point of this?”

 

“They’re _security_ questions, Malcolm. We have to do three. Uh, the next one is your work address, we can’t do that… What colour was your first car?”

 

“I don’t drive. Ask a fucking proper one, will you?”

 

“Right, right, okay… Your grandmother’s first name? On second thoughts you’d have to remember which grandmother…”

 

“No, it’s fine, they were both Mary. Put Mary.”

 

Sam types. “Right, we need one more… Where did your parents meet?”

 

“Fucking personal questions here, eh? I’ve literally no idea.”

 

“An important anniversary?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Sam shrugs helplessly. “That’s the last option, you’ve rejected all the other questions. You must be able to think of one important date. Something personal? And not obvious, so not your birthday.”

 

Jamie’s neck-hairs prickle, and he looks round to see Malcolm giving him the most dangerous look ever seen this side of the Mesozoic era. He widens his eyes in what he believes is his most innocent expression, but Malcolm turns up the glare another few notches into something decidedly cold-blooded and borderline selachimorphic.

 

“Fourteenth of February,” Malcolm says, carefully. “Put that.”

 

Sam earns herself a couple of Jamie McDonald reward points by making no indication that she finds this remotely interesting in any way. _Fantastic PA_ , Malcolm had gushed last night. Jamie concedes she might indeed be _acceptable_.

 

Jamie holds Malcolm’s deadly gaze, grins the broadest and smuggest of grins, then skips away into the corridors of Ten Downing Street buoyed by the knowledge that Malcolm will make him pay, tonight (more than once, if he’s lucky), for landing him with a fucking _anniversary_ on fucking _Valentine’s Day_.


End file.
